


A Litany of Works

by subchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a refusal to let go of things, but it's enough of a challenge for Dean to push past all of those defenses until Sam can no longer deny him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Litany of Works

**Author's Note:**

> This began at two in the morning to see how far I can take a PWP before it turned into something that somewhat had a plot. I have a huge boner for season one, so that helped to push for some themes applied in here.

Dean’s leaning forward, hooking his fingers into the belt loops on the sides of Sam’s hips, and pulls him forward; dragging Sam across the bed into Dean’s lap, and Sam is smirking at him as he goes. Sam settles into Dean’s lap, getting his legs on either side of Dean’s hips and griping as Dean leans forward to push Sam back, pressing his face into Sam’s neck, biting at the skin and rolling it between his teeth.

Sam is arching off the bed, hands grasping at the back of Dean’s jacket, clutching at handfuls to pull Dean flush against his chest and Dean chuckles into his neck with hot breath, causing a shudder to wrack Sam’s frame with an eager promise, trails his lips up against Sam’s skin, scraping his stubble against Sam’s neck, and Sam’s wrapping a leg around Dean’s waist and bowing again as he feels Dean’s fingers trail under his shirt, nails pressing into fever-hot skin as Sam is trying to bite back a moan as Dean brushes against his nipples, giving them enough attention to have them stiffening.

And they grind together, gathering enough friction for this slow burn of heat to pool into their stomachs, sweat collects under their shirts and slicks their skin and they pant together with pleasure building under their skin and into their mouths when they connect their lips. Sam just moans as Dean’s hand skims down to Sam’s building erection and presses, giving Sam some pressure for relief and Sam’s hands grip into Dean’s jacket and peels it away, gripping at his shirt and latching his fingers around Dean’s broad shoulders.

Dean can’t get enough, trails his mouth down over a plane of heated skin and sweat, and he collects it under his tongue and comes back for more and more, the need burning under his fingers for more touch. Dean’s pushing the jacket from Sam’s shoulders and pushes his hands under the other man’s shirt and Sam’s throwing his head back, bangs falling away from his eyes in slightly sweaty clumps. Sam’s hands shoot out, fingers sliding under the collar of Dean’s jacket to haul Dean upward to connect their mouths again, disconnecting for a moment to pull Dean’s shirt off.

And Dean’s pulling back to shove his fingers back under Sam’s shirt, finding his nipples again, pressing his thumbs against them, getting the tips of his nails to press forward, knowing that Sam’s nipples are sensitive and staring at Sam’s face, watching the twist of skin contorting and changing and molding into a sensuous symphony of pleasure.

This is always a favorite of Dean’s, watching his brother, normally stoic and in control, and too anti-fun for Dean’s tastes, lose his control and let it pour out of him through sweat and hot breath and panting. Dean wants to experiment with this one day, make Sam come this way. If he does it enough he’s sure that Sam could, but he can’t, not right now, not when Dean’s got Sam pliantand writhing under his hands.

The older brother is leaning down, taking the bottom of Sam’s shirt in his teeth, drags his head upward and pulls Sam’s shirt up until he can see Sam’s stomach contracting. Seeing the results of his ministrations, he stops, taking his hands away from Sam’s nipples to lick down Sam’s stomach, dragging the flat of his tongue over heated skin, gathering salt under his tongue, smelling the musk of it. Sam’s throat is spilling sounds he normally stops, Dean’s slow attention on his body weakening his resolve, and Dean knows he’s close to breaking Sam’s will.

Dean’s hands are curling around the front of Sam’s jeans, fingers picking the front apart until his pants are undone, the younger arching again, raising his hips, allowing Dean to pull them away and reveling in the cooler air over heated skin and cooling with the collection of sweat over his body. He’s nosing at Sam’s boxers, gathering the smell, holding it in and taking pleasure in knowing he’s got Sam this way, that he’s the only one to get Sam this way, he’s the one that can get Sam to give all of his pleasure to Dean to control and do with as he pleases.

Sam’s breathing harder, chest collapsing and filling with air his lungs can’t get enough of it, greedy for relief and comfort from the insistent pulse of blood through his body to his dick and all around him as he’s saturated with endorphins and chemicals. Dean’s curling both hands under the waistband, dragging soft material down enough to expose Sam’s hipbones, leaning up to drag his lips across them, giving soft pressure and kisses them, gives them a careful touch, careful of previous finger bruises pasted like petals across lightly tanned flesh.

Sam’s lithe fingers scrape across Dean’s scalp, nails drawing paths across shorter hair, down Dean’s face, under his chin to pull Dean upward to kiss him, getting both hands onto Dean’s face and dipping his tongue across the bottom of Dean’s lips and gets inside Dean’s mouth with his tongue, feels Dean’s thumbs pressing into his hipbones, enough pressure to ground Sam. The older brother’s fingers slide to cover Sam’s hips, pressing into the V of muscle, thumbs rubbing soothingly, feeling the start of fine hairs covering Sam’s pelvic area.

Sam’s getting his hands onto Dean’s chest, breaking away to kiss at Dean’s chin, licking under his chin and onto his neck, bites the skin, getting the roughened feel of stubble under his tongue, tugging and pulling over the sensitive surface of the muscle as Dean pushes his hands under Sam’s boxers and Sam stiffening with a shuddered gasp against Dean’s skin, knows that Sam’s slowly gaining back awareness and no, no, _no_ , Dean _cannot_ have that.

He’s pulling one hand out of Sam’s boxers, using the other one around Sam as a distraction as he fishes out the carry-on lube he keeps that Sam pokes fun at him for having, feels hard flesh under his other hand, calloused fingers stroking slowly enough to distract Sam and gives him enough time to coat his other hand, and pushes it back under Sam’s boxers, now able really work on disconnecting Sam’s too morally righteous conscious, twists his fingers around Sam’s cock and Sam’s cutting a moan in his throat, Sam’s hands coming to grip Dean’s arms, nails biting into his skin and he’s biting back a groan, and Dean’s getting the other hand into Sam’s hair, gives a pull and knows it’s what Sam likes, that pressure mounting between pain and pleasure, flexes again, twice, three times and grips where he can get his thumb up to the head, pressing his thumb into the slit, rubs up and down in this parody of a rhythm , enough that he knows will get a reaction.

And bingo, Sam is almost whining, a honey-molasses drip of Dean’s voice coming out like, “that’s it, Sam, come on, tell me how much you want this,” and trying to coax more sound, adding more pressure as it all tumbles from Sam’s mouth in a low-pitched moan of  near-whining. It’s a lot for Sam, a lot to let it go, enough of a challenge for Dean to bite, to make use of it, and to use it for all it’s worth.

Sam’s trying to not writhe, trying to keep it all in, not willing to let it go—too often does he associate it with a loss of control, something he hates, and he can’t let this go, he can’t let himself become vulnerable with any kind of loss of control—he can’t—

It’s as if Dean senses this struggle, this internal conflict that’s been so close to Sam’s surface that Dean’s able to see it, a gentle, “hey—hey, Sam, hey, let it go, just let me have it,” smeared into Sam’s ear, spoken with a breath of a whisper that’s whiskey-rough, but Dean knows it’s not enough, he needs to give Sam reason to let it go, knows that Sam’s been so strung up since everything Sam held dear turned to ash months ago (and sometimes, Sam calls out _her_ name, like Jess is still here) and Dean’s got enough sense to understand this mission to get Sam to let it go.

A hand covers Sam’s chin and pulls Sam in, Dean connecting to Sam’s lips and taking over quickly, doing every trick he knows to get Sam to stop thinking—he sucks on Sam’s tongue, pushing into Sam’s mouth, moving his hand faster, squeezing, twisting, pressing with his thumb, and Sam’s squirming, hips shifting, trying to subtly move and Dean’s encouraging it, trying to convey it’s okay, it’s fine to let go, Sam _needs_ to let go.

Dean’s kissing down Sam’s jaw, licking the underside, tastes salt on sweat-slick skin and bites at the column of Sam’s throat. Dean continues with a trail down Sam’s chest, getting Sam to lean back and he’s kissing Sam’s hipbones again, giving enough attention, but not enough to divert from stroking Sam’s cock, nudging Sam’s boxers completely off, tossing them somewhere else, and he’s pressing Sam back, his brother happy to comply, and Dean’s nudging Sam’s legs open, nosing down Sam’s inner thigh, still stroking, keeps up enough pressure and he’s licking the inside of Sam’s thigh and with the tremor that follows, Dean can tell Sam is close.

It’s why Dean takes his hand away, smirking into Sam’s thigh when, “Dean,” comes strangled from Sam’s throat, but he’s got his hands on Sam’s thighs, turning him over, Sam’s body thrumming with enough pleasure to be pliant, and Dean knows he’s got a small window before Sam’s getting his bearings back. Pressing his fingers into the flesh of ass, Dean opens them and goes straight to work on licking Sam open.

It’s that shout, that near-choked sound dragging rough from Sam’s throat, the younger man breathing with air that he’s never been allowed to have, drowning in too much to know what’s happening to him, and it’s what Dean wants, it’s what Sam needs, and Dean’s bound and determined to get Sam into that mindset.

Sam’s gripping the sheets, head pressed into the mattress, teeth clenched, grinding, shoulders bunching with tension and suppression to keep himself still and rock-like, hands shaking, palms sweating through bleach-worn linen not meant to go on for so long. Dean’s trailing his tongue along the rim, presses in, corkscrews his tongue inward with a hard jab, gets his stubble to scratch along his brother’s ass, knows the burn that’s gonna spread there.

Dean’s gripping harder, fingers pressing blood to the surface to pool under them in each spot he touches, loves this, like his own brand upon Sam’s skin and only for him to see, only for his eyes. He’s twisting his face, getting his tongue in as far as he can, licks at every spot he can get, he can touch, make Sam feel everything he’s doing, raising the sounds in Sam’s throat, making it go through it’s orchestral crescendo height and power to come to an overload of all instruments blending together until Sam’s voice resembles every polished instrument at their finale.

Dean’s the conductor, and he’s very proud of his creation.

Sam’s back is a landscape of convulsing muscles, sweat sheening across the planes, polishing a pretty glow of tanned seascapes, and Dean just wants to pull his head away, staring at the glow of Sam’s back and trace fingers through sweat and paint it with his own version—he’s focused, though, wanting to make Sam come undone and apart, tearing too much at the seams to be repaired.

“Ah— _geh_ ,” are the only things that can properly exit Sam’s mouth, “Dean, _please_ ,” coming here and there, cutting off like a prayer not meant to be spoken aloud, and Dean’s been trying so hard to get Sam to stop considering control and let him have it, Dean craves it.

In a way, Dean wants it all.

Sam can’t hold out like this, he knows what Dean is trying to do and honestly, Sam’s trying to resist, he’s always trying to resist but it’s so good, Dean makes it impossible to restrain himself—with that tongue swirling around his hole, care he’s taking with Sam, typical Dean when he thinks Sam needs something. It’s then that Sam feels the wet slick of dean’s fingers, slick with spit, in with Dean’s tongue, knows Dean is seeking out—

Dean’s found what he was looking for, Sam arching off the bed, held up by his elbows, fingers etched deep into the already-abused sheets, a gasp tearing from his throat—his brother’s finger twirls, tracing an O-like figurine, bending at the knuckles to reach all areas, and it’s so hard for Sam to keep a grip on himself, to not give into that burning heat settling at the base of his stomach and shooting through his veins like liquid gold. He wants to let himself get addicted to it, god, does he ever want to let himself fall into it, to let Dean take, give, push, _fuck_ but he just can’t, he _can’t_ —he _shouldn’t_ —

“ _God_ —fuck,“ tears viciously from Sam’s voice, nails _dragging_ down the sheets, knowing that fucking smirk pastes to Dean’s kips as he didn’t realize Dean had gotten two fingers in him, sharp thrusts to Sam’s prostate, feels the harsh throb travel to his dick, knows he’s got a wet patch, doesn’t care about anything outside of Dean’s fingers fucking him, that swirl of Dean’s tongue around his hole, the drip of spit running down and splitting to run down his balls, heavy and full, and Sam is just ready to come, he doesn’t _care_ , he just wants it so much, strung out on the end of Dean’s fingers and tongue.

“That’s it, Sam,” Dean whispers into Sam’s heated skin, splitting his fingers enough for pressure, hearing Sam make a sound like he’s dying, choking on his tongue, head sagging between his shoulders. Sam is so fucking close and Dean knows it by the desperate, mini-jerks of the chestnut-haired male at the mercy of his fingers, Dean getting a hand on Sam’s hips and pressing him down, Sam making a troubled whine, as if he’s still uncomfortable about letting Dean do this.

Dean’s got three fingers in Sam, twisting his wrist, scissoring them, lavishing attention to Sam’s overly-sensitive hole, watching it stretch over his fingers, fascinated by the color it’s turning, how Sam’s rim is closing over his fingers is just so mesmerizing to Dean, but it’s not enough—he wants Sam to come, he needs him to come, to let go and feel the highest tide crash over him and surge under, but Sam’s not quite there, not ready to breach this.

So Dean crawls up, keeping his fingers in Sam and settling over his back, using his free hand to turn Sam’s head as much as he can without hurting Sam to kiss him, realizing faintly that he still has on his own jeans, and Sam’s still got his shirt bunched under his arms. He tangles his tongue with Sam’s, knows the pleasure surging through Sam is enough to deplete Sam’s finesse—it’s sloppy, it’s messy, uncoordinated, and it strikes hotly in Dean’s stomach how out of control Sam is, knows how much it would unsettle Sam to be this way but it’s exactly what the older brother was going for.

“Dean, I need—” doesn’t fully make it from Sam’s mouth; it’s slurred, heated, _desperate_ , needing exactly what he wants, but Sam’s still hesitant. Dean knows he won’t fuck Sam through his first orgasm, knows Sam wouldn’t last very long, his body strung tight, clenching around Dean’s fingers so he has to put more force behind it, and there it is, that hitch in Sam’s breathing, the beginning notes of his orgasm playing out. It’s rare when Sam gets into that mood, where just one command, innocuous words strung together can get Sam into that place.

With a shove of his fingers, Sam breaks his mouth away, a higher, drawn out, broken moan coming out of Sam as, “come for me, Sam,” blows over, like gritty smoke, and Sam seizes up, Dean pressing into his prostate, not even touching Sam’s dick, and a cry through thickened, sex-stained air shoots from Sam’s throat, used and parched and broken. Sam comes, his muscles strung tight, tearing at the blankets, hair stuck to his sweaty skin, and Dean watches—keeps pressing at Sam’s prostate, keeps that constant pressure, and Sam cries out again, chest heaving and Dean—he—

He fucking loves this sight.

It’s a condensed recipe of everything Dean wants— _needs_ —to see, Sam giving him this kind of permission he never lets anyone have, doesn’t let anyone gain power over his vulnerable state. It’s something Dean’s always wanted to see, craved to see because he always knew this existed under the ugly, festering hurt and anger and resentment Sam’s always carried; Dean’s always made it his mission to peel back those layers of bitterness, always chipped away at them until Sam could no longer hide beneath them.

Dean slowly removes his fingers, hearing the wet sound of them retreating from Sam’s body and crawls in front of Sam, stares almost critically at him, taking in his very rumpled appearance: mouth open, hair everywhere, all sweaty and messy and clumped and pasted on his skin—it’s an image Dean wants pressed in his brain, he always wants to remember this, these moments when Sam lets himself stay in this mood, it’s all too rare.

Sam’s chin is lifted when Dean pushes his fingers under it, raises it until Sam can look at Dean and Dean sees all he needs, all he wants. He leans in and kisses Sam, a slow lick across the seam of Sam’s lips, across his teeth, and Sam opens, leisurely, tired, all sluggish, and Dean views it with reverence, creating a low kindle in his belly, spreading languidly through him.

Sam lets Dean lead for now, allows Dean to do things Sam would normally fight him for but he’s subdued, he’s just letting Dean handle everything and it’s a huge—a really large step that Dean can’t help but go over almost adoringly. Sam stares up at Dean blurrily and muddled, needing a moment to gather himself, but Dean won’t allow it, knows that Sam’s only going to be in this state briefly before his mind flips back on, pulls back on all cylinders, and begins to analyze things until he’s got every agonized, horrible thing that could go wrong playing out in his brain.

Sam’s hazily floating through opaque water, far from breaching the surface that is reality, waiting to drown him, for everything to collapse onto him that is his shattered world, to wound him even more, but Sam doesn’t want that, he wants to prolong this moment, but he knows it’s just that, a moment, a piece in time ready to end.

There’s a shift, and Dean’s pulling away, crawling behind Sam and rolling him onto his back. Dean comes into focus, everything centering itself on Dean and sometimes, Sam really feels like it, like Dean is his world, all compressed into one physical embodiment of everything he wants and needs. Sam knows he should feel guilty about this, should feel horrible, but right now, he can’t be bothered, he doesn’t care, and it’s as pleasant as it was six months ago before his apartment became too hot, when warm colors engulfed Jess, splattered across his ceiling, bringing too much heat and too little respite.

Dean’s kneeling over Sam, head craning, and just looking at him, boxing him in with that look alone. Dean gets like this sometimes, like he can protect Sam from this darkness that’s taken to chasing Sam, as if Dean can be this force that can create a world for Sam free of all harmful things. Sam wants to believe that, he desperately wants it with the thirst of a dehydrated man, and he lets himself believe it, lets himself fall into this honey-sweet false passiveness, he can allow it, he can want it.

It’s dangerous, though, having that terrible hope.

But Dean’s staring at Sam, watching his own hands coming up to rest on Sam’s face, watching them travel down Sam’s body and trailing them behind Sam’s legs, and gets two fingers probing back at his stretched open hole, circling the rim, and Sam stifles a groan, the haziness wearing off to the beginnings of a spinning web of discomfort about showing vulnerability and Sam doesn’t know if he likes it, if he should even embrace it.

Dean’s fingers press against Sam’s hole again; smearing lube around, and retreating before circling his rim again. Dean doesn’t press inside, only pushing with minimal force; giving enough pressure that Sam feels a stirring of heat low in his stomach; slowly unfurling into a kindling burn, building inside him with this molasses-like quality, and this causes Sam to briefly ponder why that small touch has his body reacting so much.

Sam’s too sensitive, and one of Dean’s hands reaches up to grasp Sam’s cock but isn’t moving, just staying there, a warm presence for Sam to get used to, like Dean’s waiting for him to say something, anything, to tell him that this isn’t okay, tell him to stop. It’s a classic of Dean’s traits, acting as though Sam’s going to break, like he’s a fragile object, and Sam doesn’t want that, his mood beginning to sour at the thought of Dean still not treating him like an equal.

Sam’s arches when Dean presses in, fingers sliding completely inside, already seeking out all the areas to make Sam writhe and choke and moan this symphony of sounds that he can’t stop, that his body releases without Sam’s permission. It bends and breaks and cracks open his soul to be given to Dean, to his mercy that eats at Sam in ways he can’t put onto a human understanding.

It’s just so overwhelming for him.

Dean’s caressing him, inside and out, finding and pressing against his prostate, stroking once, twice, three times, and does a sharp press to that spot once before he’s back to stroking. Sam’s body is trying to get hard, sending all the blood back into his dick and it’s working.

Sam’s almost forgets that Dean’s watching him, nearly unaware of anything outside the pleasure thrumming through him. Dean’s ministrations are working, pulling him from reality with every stroke, and his dick likes it more, getting harder, filling with blood. There’s also Dean’s voice, with that gritty undertone washing warmly over Sam’s body, telling him it’s okay, it’s alright, and the combination of it all pushes Sam past the point of no return. Cut-off moans spill forth, a cup runneth over and he’s gonna come again, Dean gently coaxing it from him, needing Sam to do this. “Come on, Sammy, know there’s another one in you, just let it go,” and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —

Dean keeps watching, fascinated by the way Sam’s body convulses, sweat rolling down straining muscles, fingers flexing and retracting over abused sheets. Dean knows he’s pushing Sam, he knows there’s nothing much left in him, but he wants Sam to let go completely, let himself surrender wholly. Dean pulls his hand away from Sam’s cock, the weak stream of cum telling him that Sam is almost spent, would be coming dry next time, but Dean’s not done—almost, but not yet.

Dean’s begins removing his own pants, hissing as his jeans rub against his dick, hard and flushed. He grips himself, resists stroking himself and knows he wouldn’t be able to stop; it’s not what he wants. He’s crawling up to his younger brother, settling between his legs, lubing himself while staring at Sam, watching those half-lidded, searching for any type of hesitancy, if Sam really is stretched beyond his limits.

Dean grabs a pillow, pushing it under Sam’s hips to make it easier for him, knowing Sam wouldn’t be able to lift himself to meet his older brother’s hips. When Dean has Sam level enough, steadying himself and lined up against Sam, he pushes in, going at a slow pace in order to not hurt Sam,but he doubts Sam is tight enough for it be a discomfort.

It’s this ensemble of sensations, mounting into a gamma ray burst behind Dean’s eyelids, this gasping-like breath that’s unspooling from his chest, up his throat, and out before he can stop himself, but Dean’s doesn’t care, he doesn’t need to. He wants to show Sam that he doesn’t need to be in control all the time, show his younger brother that the sounds he makes are nothing to be ashamed of.

Sam is pliant under him, lets Dean use him like this, and knows that Dean would stop if he didn’t want this anymore. Dean’s hand finds Sam’s dick again, and Sam feels Dean’s cock thrust into him. Sam sort of wants to be able to come again, he wants to really get off on this, but he doesn’t know if he can.

Dean’s other hand finds Sam’s sweat-dampened hair, gripping it and leaning over Sam, lips connecting with Sam’s, licking along his lips, gently demanding access, but it’s gotten to where he’s an open dam for Dean to pass through whenever he pleases and he’s trying to give back, give Dean the fight Sam’s known for but he just can’t, he’s let go of so much control, given himself to Dean that he can’t.

Dean’s wrapping an arm around one of the darker-haired boy’s legs, lifting, trying to get a better angle. He knows that Sam is overstimulated, but he lets his hand drift from Sam’s hair to Sam’s dick again, hears the hitch of Sam’s breath, knows Sam’s too sensitive to even think about jerking off, but Dean keeps his hand on him, a warm presence, grounding him, and Sam lets him, doesn’t push him away. It’s when Sam puts his arms around Dean’s neck, grips and tugs Dean down, that Dean buries his face into Sam’s neck, thrusts getting harsher, breathing in the scent of Sam’s skin.

Sam’s back rubs against the bed, the thrusts getting sharper, sloppier, Dean’s voice filling the space between them with a series of low praises against Sam’s skin: “Did so good for me, Sammy, been so good to me,” and all kinds of warmth flows over, building up Sam’s need to get Dean off until it’s overwhelming—he wants to return this favor that Dean’s given him.

Dean’s hand tightens on Sam’s dick, telling Sam he’s close, the grunts getting louder, the praise gets sloppier, rougher, and shorter. Sam feels the trickles of pleasure up his spine, a dulled reaction that heats him inside. Dean’s cock fills him, keeps pushing him into that place. Sam knows his body is trying to react, trying to gain enough momentum to come again, but Sam doesn’t know if he can, if his body can even get back to that state.

When Dean can’t keep up the litany of praise, his teeth bury into Sam’s neck, tongue laving at the skin, soothing the bite Dean gives him, just something to keep his mouth occupied. Sam isn’t tight as he normally would be, all stretched and fucked-out after coming twice, but it’s enough for Dean, Sam’s over-heated body giving him enough of a velvet-like clutch, and Dean’s body is compelled to keep thrusting, sailing toward that feeling that’s already curling from the base of his spine and he wants it, Dean wants it more than anything—

“Sam, gonna— _fucking_ —” and Sam knows, Dean’s thrusts shaky and unbalanced and unable to come back to that familiar rhythm. The hand Dean has gripping Sam’s thigh tightens, fingers pressing new blood bruises beneath the surface, more marks of ownership that Sam’s going to touch later, revel in. Dean’s body arches over Sam’s, Dean leaning down to kiss Sam, harsh and probing and teeth-filled and Dean’s coming, his brother’s name half-grunted into Sam’s mouth.

Dean shoves one more time, harsh, fast, sharp stab at Sam’s prostate and Sam’s gasping, that dull heat flooding his body and he comes, almost nothing spilling from his dick, leaving Sam winded, gasping and needing air that his lungs almost lock up and deny him.

Dean’s collapsing under the sudden strain his body feels after coming, laying on top of Sam, face burying into Sam’s neck, slotting like the final puzzle piece as they breathe—it’s the coming down period that cements it all, gives everything a moment to settle. Sam’s opening his eyes, blurred with sweat and bangs stuck to his forehead. He nudges at Dean, grunts, “you’re heavy, Dean, get off.”

“You callin’ me a fatass, princess?”

Sam huffs a laugh, and Dean moves, making a noise of protest and settling in beside Sam, pulling him toward Dean, getting Sam’s head on his chest.

“Dude, this seems suspiciously like cuddling.”

“We’re hugging, Sammy.”

“Laying down?”

“It’s horizontal hugging; shut the fuck up, man.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, lets this calming silence fill the space before, “hey, Dean?”

“I told you already, you friggin’ girl, it’s _not cuddling_ —“

Sam lightly punches Dean in the side, rolls a little to look at him, “I mean, thanks for… y’know.”

Dean smirks, though the hand that finds its way into Sam’s hair says differently. “You still can’t say it? We fucked, Sammy.”

“And you’re still crude as hell, nice to know I’m related to you.”

“You love it.”

And Sam smiles, lids going half-lidded, this softness filtering through multi-colored eyes. “Yeah, I do.”

Dean tilts his head, studies Sam for a moment before chuckling, and tightening his hand a little. “Alright, enough sentimental shit, this isn’t a Lifetime original.”

Sam rolls his eyes but settles onto Dean’s chest, head lying down and Dean’s hand still lightly scratching at Sam’s hair. “Should take a shower, we reek like a brothel room and I’ve got your cum leaking outta my ass.”

“Nah, Sammy, don’t ruin the afterglow.”

Sam doesn’t protest, and feels himself drifting, Dean’s fingers in his hair allowing him to fall into content.

“But still, thanks.”

“Lifetime movie, Sam.”


End file.
